


Liar, Liar

by SharpestKnife



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-24 15:52:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1610768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestKnife/pseuds/SharpestKnife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jon Snow touches himself, he makes a game of it. He slides the bolt to his chamber door. He likes to take his shirt off, likes how his skin feels against the furs on his bed. He breathes deeply, because somehow that makes it nicer, and he spits in his hand, because as a stablehand once laughingly told him, the wetter, the better. </p><p>When Jon Snow touches himself, he tries very hard not to think of his brother, but each time he comes spurting uselessly into his hands. Then this brother comes knocking, and Jon Snow finds new ways to play at his game.</p><p>Chapter 2. Jon learns much about himself, and perhaps a few things about rutting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Much love, as always, to [Rovardotter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter) for her beta. J'aime love you tres tres beaucoup. I failed French in college, sorry D:

Jon is bored. Deathly bored, and it bothers him that he can think of nothing better to do than sit and stare at the fire. The fire he built himself, right after shucking his shirt and washing his face, the three things he does each night to prepare for sleep. And really, it feels far too early to retire, but there’s nothing else to do, especially when Robb isn’t around.

He drops heavily onto his bed and sighs. It really is strange, he thinks, that Robb hasn’t been by to see him. They spend most of their days with each other, true enough, but Robb seems to like being around him even when the sun has fallen. Jon doesn’t mind. He enjoys his brother’s company, and Robb’s eagerness to be close to him says that he feels the same way.

Jon swallows thickly when he thinks of how he might enjoy Robb’s presence a little too much. He’s done denying how his fondness for him stays within the limits of brotherly affection, and each time Robb holds his hand too long, leans his head on his shoulder, or grasps him around the waist, Jon allows himself to thrill at the contact. Only he isn’t sure to go any further, because it might mean losing Robb, and that would be the worst thing in the world. But it’s hard when Robb is so insistent with his affections and Jon can’t even be certain whether the littlest gestures are ever meant to say more.

A scrabbling at the door drags him away from his thoughts. Jon checks to see that he hasn't left Ghost out again, and the beast is asleep by the hearth, sure enough. The scratching has done nothing to wake the dire wolf, and Jon takes it as proof that whatever has come to bother him in the night couldn't be all that harmful. A voice on the other side of the door confirms it.

"Snow," the voice says. "Snow, it's me. _Jon_."

It's Robb, and Jon knows from the slur in his voice that he’s drunk. And as often happens, Robb drunk means that he is prone to being overly needy, and far more affectionate than he would normally be. It's reason enough for Jon to leap off the bed. He takes a moment to smooth back his hair, then quietly feels stupid for doing so.

He opens the door and Robb stumbles in, as if he’s been leaning on it. His face is ruddier than usual, and there’s a lazy, casual grin playing on his lips. He steps through the door, bumps his shoulder against Jon’s to greet him, and heads straight for the bed.

“Come in,” Jon mumbles to no one in particular, and by the time the door is shut, Robb has already thrown off his boots and settled happily on the bed. Jon walks over, tries his best to keep a stern look on his face, and he frowns as he eyes the wineskin in Robb’s hand.

“Stole it all by myself,” Robb crows, and he looks especially proud of himself. Jon sighs, but really, he doesn’t begrudge Robb his few moments of weakness, the rare times when he does get a little pissed. Robb’s so good, so put-together all the time that Jon doesn’t wonder if he’ll eventually snap in half from being so rigid, but _when_. He knows that Robb feels safest with him, that his company is a place where he can be at ease and leave behind the burdens of his future lordship. The wine is a rare escape, a reprieve from all the responsibility.

At all other times, Robb is a good son, a wonderful brother, and someday, Jon is certain that he’ll become a great lord. But right now, Robb is a terrible drunk. He can barely ever hold his wine. Jon can’t say he’s any better, but at least he knows when he has to stop. Robb gets slurry and slow when he’s drunk, and a little stupider, if Jon’s to be honest about it. But he’s also more generous with his hands and his body, and that’s the part that Jon looks forward to.

Jon slides into the bed, but Robb’s with him now and it looks like he won’t be getting any sleep for as long as his brother insists on keeping him up. They come to rest shoulder to shoulder, and Jon thinks he might be a little too pleased when he feels Robb place his head in the crook of his neck and squirm closer for warmth.

“Miss you,” Robb says, and it’s strange to hear when Jon knows that it has only been hours since they last met. At dinner, to be precise, and Jon’s sure that Robb didn’t have anything to drink then. It’s how he knows that this will play out to be a long night indeed, because Robb has only gotten started. He sighs and wraps one arm around Robb’s shoulders. Robb nudges even closer, and the two of them wedged together like this, how they fit together so well, Jon thinks that it’s just so correct.

“Saw you at dinner,” Jon says finally.

“Still miss you,” Robb whines, and Jon isn’t sure where this plea for attention is coming from, why Robb is suddenly much needier this night, but he really doesn’t mind. “Couldn’t find you earlier.”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” Jon says.

“Didn’t know. Went to find Theon instead.”

Immediately there’s a hardening around Jon’s heart, and he’s far past convincing himself that it isn’t because he’s jealous, because the idea of Robb spending more time with Greyjoy, or spending _any_ time with Greyjoy at all rouses something resentful in him.

“Did he get you drunk?” Jon says, and he finds it hard to keep the roughness out of his voice. He knows it’s too obvious, and surely Robb must know how much he seethes, but Jon’s jealous, and that is that.

“No,” Robb says softly. He hefts up the wineskin again. “Stole this myself. Told you. He went off to town. I didn’t want to go.”

And Jon feels stupid for sulking, but he really can’t help it. “Why not?”

Robb turns to him, and the look on his face is incredulous. “Wanted to be with you. Told you.”

Jon clears his throat, runs his hand through his hair, anything to distract Robb from the fact that he’s starting to blush, but Robb doesn’t seem to notice and he just turns away.

“Like you more than Theon, anyway.” There’s something soft in Robb’s voice as he speaks. He moves closer to Jon, the warmth of his body pulsing through his clothing. “Think you’re handsomer, too.”

Jon is grateful that he’s seated on the bed, knows that his legs would have given out at hearing Robb say that, and he coughs again to try and distract him.

“You’re just drunk,” Jon says, trying to act like the responsible brother, for once. “Think you’ve had enough.” He reaches to take away the wineskin.

“No,” Robb says, and he twists his body away. “Just started. Don’t spoil my fun, Snow.” And it hurts, just a little, that Robb reverts to calling him by that other name, the one that feels more impersonal somehow, but surely Robb knows that Jon only has his best interests in mind. Doesn’t he?

Robb pulls deeply on the wineskin and Jon grimaces knowing he'll have to take care of him through this, but then he remembers that it isn't as bad as all that. It never is, and it’s nice to have a warm body around, especially Robb’s. Robb winces as he swallows, and it proves to be quite a mouthful, Jon can see, from the little trail of wine that spills down the side of his mouth.

"Gods, Robb, honestly," he says, his hand already reaching out before he can think to stop it. He wipes away the dribble of wine with his thumb, and Robb seems a little surprised at the gesture. Not nearly as surprised as Jon, who can only gasp when Robb turns his head, parts his lips, and closes his mouth around his thumb.

There's a soft, wet sound, and Jon feels Robb's tongue sliding over his skin, lapping almost shyly at the wine. Robb pulls away quickly, and there's a little guilt on his face as he looks away. "Sorry," he mutters.

Jon just stares open-mouthed at his thumb, unsure of how to react, and he freezes when Robb leans in again. “Sorry,” Robb breathes, shuddering as he whispers, and he presses their lips together. Jon is too stunned, because this is both the best and the last thing he expected tonight. There’s desperation in the way Robb kisses him, something that tastes like hunger, like a craving that has waited too long to be filled. Robb whines against his mouth, like he's asking Jon to return the gesture, and when Jon presses forward to do so at last, skin burning, heart pounding like war drums, Robb moans, gentle and low.

This had happened once before, also in a drunken rage, and Jon had always hoped for it to happen again. But Robb's lips had missed that one time, drunk as he was, and it had been less of a kiss than a sloppy peck to Jon's nose. He had thought of asking, but there was the ever present fear of how differently Robb might react, of how much or how little he remembered when he sobered. Most importantly, the possibility that Robb might run from him, that Jon might lose his brother to his own desires. But now, the way that Robb's tongue runs curiously over his own tells Jon that there would be no harm in asking in future.

Robb pulls away and murmurs. "Sorry," and Jon is sure he has a right to be hurt when he can't figure what the apology is for. He's quite certain that no one should ever apologize for kissing as well as Robb just did.

“More,” he mutters roughly, and he nudges his nose perhaps a little too hard against Robb's cheek, because all Jon can think of is how much he wants to keep tasting his brother. That, and how this evening might have ruined wine for him forever. Jon fancies that there would be no better way to sample Dornish red than from the inside of Robb's mouth, lapping for traces of it against the soft edges, nipping tenderly, he hopes, at the curves of his lips, searching with his tongue for the last dregs of wine, or the taste of Robb, or perhaps both. They could have been sharing that sour swill from the low tables and Jon would scarcely have noticed. This taste, the warmth and moist of Robb's mouth, it’s better than anything and everything. Fuck Robb and his stupid mouth. Drinking would never be the same again.

It’s Jon who breaks the kiss this time, not because he wants to, but out of a fear that they’ve both forgotten to breathe. Robb moves after him, and Jon feels a faint tingle in his chest when he hears his brother whimper. The hair at his nape bristles. He didn’t ever know that it was possible to be so wanted.

They stare at each other for a moment, breathless, and things suddenly seem so awkward. Robb scratches at the back of his neck, looking all but bewildered, and Jon wrings his hands. There's a moment of uncertainty as Robb stares at the bed covers, threads his fingers through the furs. "So what happens now?"

Jon regrets the words as soon as they form in his mind, but he says them anyway: "I think we've done enough."

Robb stares at him and there's a hurt look on his face, and Jon wills himself to look away, because as compelling as Robb could be with his words, his expressions — and his stupidly handsome face — were also very good at getting Jon to do things he never planned to.

"We could do other things,” Robb mutters. He looks to Jon for an answer, and when one doesn’t come, there’s a brief flare of anger in his eyes. “Jon. What are you so afraid of?"

Jon opens his mouth to speak, and it's a shock when nothing comes out. In truth he really has few fears left. The kiss was the last step over the precipice. It was like a door had been opened to, well, really anything and everything else. The thought excites Jon to no end, which naturally means that it also terrifies him.

"I’ll talk if you won’t," Robb says, as if to fill the silence. “Give you a reason to play with me.” The words stir something in Jon’s hips, and still he says nothing, just swallows. Robb shifts on the bed until his body is flush with Jon's. Jon shivers at the sheer heat of him, stiffens in fright when Robb leans in too close to speak.

"I think of you when I play with myself."

Jon’s blood fills with ice even as a warmth runs to his belly, and the confusion stuns him. He isn't ready to hear this. He isn't ready at all, and he thinks that he never will be.

Robb moves even closer and Jon backs away, finds himself trapped in his own bed. Still he has nothing to say, his mind reeling at the thought of Robb naked in his own bedchambers, rubbing himself raw while he thinks of... _Gods, what does he think of? What do we do when he thinks of me?_ He thinks to stammer something, anything in desperation.

"You like boys then," he says, and the pathetic squeak in his voice gives away his fear as much as it gives away his desire. And there's really very little space left on Jon's side of the bed and Robb is _still_ pressing in, and Jon finds that there really is nowhere left to run when he leans away and bangs his head against the wall.

"Not really," Robb says. "Still like girls." He blinks slowly. "But I like you more."

Jon doesn't know when he starts whimpering, but there's a sad, strangled whining somewhere inside the room, and he’s sure it's coming out of his mouth. He doesn't quite remember ever being so nervous, or quite as aroused, and he holds out a hand to keep Robb at a distance. Robb, being Robb, presses against his hand regardless, and the feel of his chest, strong and broad, really does nothing to save Jon from his own thoughts.

Robb leans in, just inches away from Jon's face. It would be fine if Jon knew that he was coming in for another kiss, but he believes that he’s right in suspecting that Robb is hinting at something slightly messier. And really, things can't get worse — or is it better? — until Robb speaks again.

"Do you think of me when you touch yourself?"

Jon can't fight the bloom that rushes straight to his ears, and his cock goes fully hard. It always makes it more difficult to resist Robb when he uses what Jon thinks of as his lordly face: impassive, authoritative, and just a touch arrogant. It’s the same face Robb uses to get his younger siblings to confess to their little crimes, the same face he uses when he challenges his parents' decisions and choices, and the same face that Jon finds so brutally handsome that it obliterates his mind into so much worthless detritus.

Robb's straddled his hips by now, locking him against the bed, and Jon dips low on the mattress to push his crotch out of the way, angles so Robb might sit on his stomach instead. Robb doesn't seem to care either way, still staring Jon down for an answer.

And Jon says, meekly and stupidly, "No?"

Robb’s gaze becomes even steelier and his hips shift until his bottom comes to rest over the only part of Jon's body that insists on telling the truth. Jon can't stifle a moan when Robb settles onto him, then grinds down, deep and low.

"No," Robb echoes flatly. He twists deeper into the bed, and Jon abandons all pretense, throws his head back and groans. And it’s terrible, how he realizes that Robb’s arse is so firm, and _gods_ , so _perfect_ , and Jon’s cock strains so hard against his breeches that he’s afraid that the cloth might rip at the seams.

Fingers wrap around Jon’s wrists, and he sees Robb lift his arms above his head, pinning them to the wall, and Jon knows he should resist, but his brother is too strong, and the pleasure stronger. Robb rocks against him, deliberately enough that Jon moans even louder, and there really is no room left for lying because Robb definitely knows how much he likes this by now.

“Then you’ve never thought about me when you play with your cock.” Robb’s eyes are narrowed, cold, and something about his imperiousness makes Jon want to submit to him, give himself wholly and without reservation.

“Robb,” he croaks. “Gods, please.”

“You can’t lie to me, Jon.” Robb doesn’t stop in his rocking, grinds against him more. Jon clings to what little sense he has left and understands that Robb doesn’t really expect an answer. Jon’s too easy to read, or maybe his brother has grown too good at doing it, and hiding no longer matters because Robb already knows. Robb always knows.

The hands around his wrists disappear, and they move down to rake through Jon’s hair. The lightest touch makes him quiver, and it’s ridiculous how every curl that snags against Robb’s fingers jolts him like liquid lightning, but that’s how he feels.

“Then don’t answer,” Robb says. “But tell me this. What’s stopping you?”

And Jon finds the words at last, and he spits them out before he forgets. “Worried. Afraid you might go away.”

Robb’s face softens, and his brows furrow. “Won’t, Jon. Never.” He ventures a small smile. “And I’m drunk. Might even forget by morning.”

And taking advantage of Robb’s intoxication suddenly sounds like the best _and_ the worst thing in the world, but he had a point. Robb was at his most honest when he was drunk, and it was Robb asking Jon for all this, wasn’t it? Jon thinks of the risks, and it’s one of the few times in his short life that he decides to take one.

Jon nods slightly, and it’s the tiniest motion of his head, but it’s enough to turn Robb’s smile into something smug, and lewd. Robb’s fingers trail down to Jon's chest, and his thumbs stop to rub in tiny circles around his nipples, and Jon only shudders and gasps. The sensation sends jolts straight to his cock, and Robb sitting on him, pressing into him with his arse, well, it doesn't help matters at all.

Robb's hands come to rest at Jon's belly, where they linger and play at the ridges and muscle. Jon notices that Robb is just staring, dragging his eyes slowly over his body, and just when he feels embarrassed enough to blush, skin glowing hot, he hears Robb whisper something under his breath.

"Perfect."

The blood shoots straight to Jon's face and he turns his head to hide. No one had ever studied him so closely, but the attention is utterly flattering, almost unbearably so. He looks beyond the bed, past Robb's shoulder, anywhere else, really, and of course he can never hide because it’s Robb, and Robb always knows.

"Don't be embarrassed," Robb whispers, and his hand reaches out to nudge Jon's chin, and now they're eye to eye. Robb looks like he's studying Jon's face now as well, and it's all Jon can do not to melt from the searing blue of his brother's gaze. And the way Robb looks at him, Jon feels so unworthy, so undeserving of all this adoration, until he hears Robb's voice again.

"Perfect."

The word does something to Jon’s entire body, leaves him utterly boneless, which is why he doesn’t fight when Robb finally slides his hand over his hardness. He digs into Jon with the palm of his hand, and Jon’s done this to himself a hundred times, but having someone else do it, having _Robb_ do it, feels a thousand times better. His hips arch forward to meet the pressure of Robb’s hand, and he swears he hears his brother chuckle under his breath.

It doesn’t take long for Robb to unlace Jon’s breeches, and Jon feels silly and selfish for bucking forward so urgently, but his mind is whispering in little impatient bursts. _Want_ , it says, and _more_ , and Jon is only too happy to comply. There’s a tense moment when his cock is finally freed from his smallclothes, and Jon thinks he can read what Robb is thinking by the look on his face. A hand wraps around his cock and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

The grip is too hard at first, and Jon grunts to show his discomfort. Robb adjusts and the tightness around his cock turns into something so perfect that Jon has to question why his brother’s hand is so clever, so quick to know what he likes. Robb begins to stroke slowly, and the feel of it is so satisfying, so cloying and thick that Jon is barely able to stop himself from grinning.

Robb smiles back at him, and it’s so strange how things can still seem so innocent between them even in something as filthy as this. Jon’s smile drops when Robb begins to rub his palm against his cock and he finds himself struggling, gripping and wringing at the bed covers for dear life, because he knows that he’ll spill if he isn’t careful and he wants this to last longer. Forever.  


Robb’s hand disappears for a moment and Jon genuinely fears that he might die if he isn’t touched again soon. He turns with a whine and finds Robb spitting into his hand. The gesture is lurid, and so terribly attractive that it must be wrong, and the warm dribble of spittle in Robb’s palm, the sensation Jon imagines he’ll feel when his brother begins to touch him again makes the anticipation in his body build to a roaring head. Robb touches his cock again, and the spit makes it warmer, slicker. Jon was so sure, so absolutely certain that this could not possibly have gotten better, but then it just has.

Then Robb adds another hand, and the pleasure becomes almost too much. One hand pulls and the other pushes, and Jon feels his spirit might be ripped in half from the sensation. He thinks that maybe this is where he was always meant to belong, writhing, unfurled, and furiously hard under his brother’s touch.

“Robb,” Jon says. “Need to stop. Almost there.”

Robb tugs a few more times, just enough to torment him and wrench pleading little sobs, then his hands mercifully come to rest at Jon’s hips. Jon is grateful for the reprieve, but the look on Robb’s face says that he’s still hungry. Robb licks his lips. There’s a swelling of fear in Jon’s chest, and he groans when Robb shifts lower on the bed, down until his head is just level with Jon’s cock. For the hundredth time this evening, Jon forgets to breathe.

There’s a thick sense of panic and anticipation when Robb starts to lay wet kisses on Jon’s hips, grazes his teeth over his belly, trails his fingers down his thighs. Jon's mouth is parchment-dry as he gapes at the sight of his brother, red, sweating, and loose between his legs. Robb doesn’t even look up, but he seems to notice Jon’s worry.

“I’ll take care of you.”

Jon swallows the lump that forms in his throat, because he’s certain that what Robb is about to do does not qualify as taking care of anything.

"Will it hurt?" Jon whispers.

Robb laughs, not unkindly, and his face disappears from view. Somewhere from beneath him, Jon hears a wet, lurid sound. For a moment, the world shatters.

Jon wants to scream, and he finds that he has no voice, so he turns into the pillow, grits his teeth, and wills himself not to come as Robb begins to take more of him into his mouth. Jon forces himself to lift his head, to watch his brother at work, and when he sees that Robb has already taken all of him, he has to fight his urge to spill even harder.

There is nothing in the world that can begin to compare to the feel of Robb’s mouth. It’s a warm, wet place that Jon never wants to leave, and Robb’s tongue is so frightfully playful, teasing relentlessly at the sensitive space just underneath his head, stroking insistently at the slit of his cock, and Jon truly believes that the pleasure might be enough to cripple him.

Jon is writhing, his insides churning with a desire to thrust, and he knows instinctively that it would be polite not to, but all he wants is to push _gods, all_ of himself into the warm and perfect wetness of Robb’s mouth. The urge burns until it’s almost irresistible, and as if in understanding Robb brings his hands to Jon’s hips and pushes hard, locking him to the bed. Jon whines from the restraint, how unfair it all is, the utter injustice of having to sit still while Robb swallows him whole, and _gods, just where did he learn to do this?_

His hand reaches out to clasp Robb by his chin, and Jon hears his brother make the smallest moan. Jon doesn’t know why, but he thinks that stroking the soft skin under Robb’s jaw is the right thing to do. He leaves his hand there, fingers ghosting again and again under Robb’s chin, and Jon feels silly for thinking that it looks very much like petting his own dire wolf. He isn’t entirely wrong when he hears his brother purring, or perhaps growling contentedly, a steady humming that pulses up his cock, through his entire body, to his toes and the ends of his hair.

And it really shouldn’t be possible, but Robb’s mouth pushes further down over Jon’s cock and the sensation is suddenly tighter, so intense that Jon knows how close he is to bursting. Robb stays there and Jon knows that his cock is embedded fully into him, all the way down his throat, and this, this is finally all too much.

“Robb,” he whines. “Gods, Robb. Stop.”

Jon thinks it’s enough of a warning, but Robb only pushes with more force, brings his head down further, and when Jon feels his brother’s nose brush against the hair at his belly, he knows that it’s going to be too late. Jon tugs at Robb’s hair, nudges his head, but Robb doesn’t stop. One hand raises to grip like iron around Jon’s wrist, and the other slams hard against his waist, pinning him to the bed.

“Can’t stop,” Jon breathes. “Robb, please...” And the rest of his words don’t come, because Jon does first. He gives a strangled cry, bites down on his fist so he doesn’t wake the entire castle, and he washes over with guilt even as his body thrums with a blistering heat, because his seed is spilling in thick threads straight down his brother’s throat.

Robb still hasn’t moved away, and there’s a strange sucking sensation over Jon’s cock when his brother swallows, and _gods_ it’s filthy but it makes Jon feel so wanted, so craved. Jon twitches as Robb draws the last drops of seed out of him, tongue laving every which way, almost like he’s cleaning him.

And Jon is so sore, and truly it hurts as much as it pleases, but this was how Robb wanted to do things, and for all that his brother has done for him tonight, Jon would let him take anything he wanted. Jon fights to sit still, waits for his brother to finish, and when he hears the slightest _pop_ , feels his cock slip free of Robb’s mouth, he feels both relief and an immediate sense of longing.

Jon’s senses finally come back into focus. When he forces his eyes open, he sees blue. Robb is sitting up, face close to his, and his expression tells Jon that his brother is finally sated, and perhaps a little smug.

"Did you like it?" Robb asks, and Jon can see that his lips are still wet, and just slightly bruised from their exertions. Locks of Robb's hair have fallen over his eyes and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. He's flushed and maybe a little worse for wear, but Jon thinks that his brother has never looked prettier. Robb raises his eyebrows and Jon remembers the question.

He musters just enough strength to nod. "Yes. Gods, yes." He notices that Robb's breeches are still on him somehow, and there's an uncomfortable looking bulge in his front. Jon reaches a hand out to Robb's waist, only manages a weak "You?"

Robb shifts in the bed and grasps him by the wrist. He shakes his head and smiles. "Later." And Jon recalls why he's so fond of him, because even in something as broken and terrifyingly pleasurable as what they've just done, Robb is still generous, still a good brother.

The look on Robb's face is softer now. He looks Jon over, surveys his work, then splays a hand over his cheek. "Can you go again?" Jon nods immediately, maybe a little too eagerly, and he's not even sure he can get hard in the days to come. Robb seems to stifle a laugh, but he can laugh all he wants because anything is worth another minute, hour, or gods, a year in his beautiful mouth.

"Maybe tomorrow," Robb says, and Jon feels greedy for feeling disappointed. He rolls to his side, arches his brow, and tilts his head, doing his best to look crestfallen, whatever that means.

"But I might die tonight."

Robb laughs at that, and he jabs Jon playfully in the stomach, and Jon laughs too, hearty and musical, because his fears were all unfounded. Despite all that they had done, despite the mess they had made of themselves, all they are is a pair of giddy, slightly stupid boys, and maybe nothing would have to change between them at all. Jon really likes the idea of that.

"Maybe later," Robb says, and Jon gets excited despite himself, because he knows that Robb is a man of his word, and he doesn't much relish the thought of having to finish himself off from now on, now that he knows how much sweeter things can be when another joins him in bed. But now that he has time to breathe at last, his mouth feels unbearably dry. He remembers the wine.

“Thirsty,” Jon croaks, and Robb reaches over his shoulder, moves to pass the wineskin, then stops. Jon starts to tug on it, throat growing more parched with each passing moment when he realizes that Robb is pulling back, like he doesn’t want to let go.

“Robb. Thirsty.” Jon looks his brother over, and there’s a faint sort of emotion, something that looks like guilt behind his eyes. Robb’s staring at the bed covers, the fire, anywhere but Jon, really, and a light flush starts to creep up his chest.

Jon lowers his gaze, then his tone. “Robb.” Robb’s fingers finally loosen their hold on the wineskin and Jon tugs it free. He reaches for the stopper then grimaces when he realizes how unusually heavy the skin is… as if it’s still full. His eyes narrow as they focus back on Robb. Robb barely moves, but a sound leaks out of him, something like a little squeak.

It takes a moment for Jon to speak again. “You’re not even drunk.”

Robb, sweet Robb, perfect Robb, at least has the decency to blush crimson.

“Gods, but you’re terrible,” Jon murmurs, and he brings his hands to his face, because that’s the safest place for them to be, away from Robb’s body where they might linger overlong, or with too much curiosity. “Terrible,” he echoes.

Robb recovers quickly enough from his shame and he nods sagely. “Horrible, really.” He ducks in, presses his mouth against Jon’s neck. “And you’re a gullible cock.”

Jon just groans.

Robb nuzzles closer, and Jon almost warms to him, until he whispers again. “Love your gullible cock.”

Jon groans again, and he knows the blush has reached the tips of his ears by now, and it’s all he can do not to burst into flame.

Robb nudges against his cheek with his nose. “Love you.” Jon warms, just a little, just enough to let his fingers fall from his face. He thinks to respond, say something in turn, as if it’s his responsibility to do so, but instead all that comes is a strange sort of grunt.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robb’s mouth crease into a tiny smile. Robb buries his lips in the crook of Jon’s neck, and Jon knows he doesn’t have to answer, because it doesn’t matter. Robb already knows. Robb always knows.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We'll learn together," Jon whispers, and he isn't even sure that he means it. He doesn't know the first thing about rutting, and Robb doesn't either, he's sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great many thanks to [Rovardotter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rovardotter), whose work continues to terrify and inspire me. You truly do not know how much your writing has affected me, my incredible edible friend.

It's far too cold to be out tonight, and Jon's hands find no warmth or solace, so he sticks them under his arms and prays that he dies quickly if his body is to surrender to the frost. He eyes the nearby torches enviously, knowing that he shouldn't have to suffer so much, but all of them are too close to the armory and giving in to the need for warmth would also give away his position.

Jon can't be sure how long he's been standing here, in the shadow of a pillar, but he knows it's the surest way to catch Robb somewhere they can be alone, somewhere quiet. It would be more dangerous, trying to play their little games in the open, but Jon's body craved someplace that wasn't one of their chambers. He wanted to catch Robb by surprise, to have the upper hand, for once.

The party should be back from the holdfast by now, and Jon had recognized the men who came to deposit their arms, even those who assisted his lord father. Lord Eddard didn't have to come all this way to strip himself of his armor, after all, since he had others to carry and keep it for him, but Robb was still very practical in his ways, wanted to do as much of everything as he could on his own. 

And there was something inside Robb that just compelled him to be so congenial that Jon knew he would fritter time away at being friendly with the men, chat with them as they shivered and walked to their quarters, perhaps even drop by his siblings' bedchambers to tuck them in or bid them good night. It was simply Robb being Robb, the beloved lordling and the perfect son, without even really trying. And so Jon had stood, and waited, all the while praying that his arse wouldn't freeze and fall off his body.

He sighs, and his breath leaves him in a plume of fog. He and Robb had promised that things wouldn't ever have to change between them, but somehow they did. Not in terrible ways, no, but enough to show that there had been an end to a time when he and Robb were just brothers, when nights spent together in the same bed meant sleep and nothing more.

The changes hadn't come much in the way that they spoke to each other, whether with words or their bodies, but more in the tiny new ways he and Robb had found to talk. How Robb held his gaze overlong at times, staring just enough to force Jon into mild embarrassment, wondering at first whether he had something on his face, and later, whether he really deserved all the attention. At night, Robb would remind him, with his hands and his mouth, just how much he deserved it. But even as his body quaked with each of Robb’s little ministrations, Jon couldn’t say he believed him.

It was as if they had discovered a new way to speak, beyond the common tongue, and beyond the expressions and gestures that they had invented and shared over the years as brothers. Now they had another language, another system of glances and occasional stupid smiles to use, as – gods, as lovers. Is that what they were?

Jon thumps at his thighs with his fists, hoping it's enough to keep his blood flowing, and he chews his lip in thought. He and Robb were brothers still – only brothers who loved each other in remarkably different ways. Jon muses over it, how he had always looked up to Daeron Targaryen, never thinking that the old house's strange tradition would be something he would ever come to consider.

Odd as they were, the Targaryens wedded as equals, as men and women of the purest blood. Jon isn't daft enough to believe he might marry Robb some day, but for the two of them, he thinks bitterly, it would be love between a boy lord and a bastard. He shakes his head, hoping it will somehow send the unhappy idea tumbling out of his ears. Robb had never treated him as less than his own siblings, and Jon fancies that throughout their short lives, Robb might have spent more time with him than with the rest of his brothers and sisters combined. Robb himself was a constant reminder that Jon would always be just the bastard brother, that he would have none of the holdings, none of the power, none of anything at all. But he had Robb, and now that he knew how deeply his brother felt for him, perhaps it would be enough.

It nearly was, really, except for how Jon felt that Robb only ever wanted to play on his own terms. It was always Robb leading, the way he brushed the backs of their knuckles together, again and again, when they walked side by side through the castle, in full view of anyone who might see. Jon was always too slow to return the gesture, and when he turned to look, Robb would always be smiling so smugly, as if he would always be entitled to play the first hand, and never Jon.

It happened even in the yard, of all places. Gods knew how Jon might die if Ser Rodrik or any of the watchers ever questioned why Robb had started to enjoy teasing him even more as they sparred, winking almost obscenely before lunging, or running his tongue far too slowly across his lips before smashing with an overhead strike. Yet no one ever noticed, and Jon wondered if he was alone in his madness, in how no one but he could see young Robb Stark's budding lewdness. 

But that was Robb's game, was it not? It was his role. Ever the good son, perfect as a lordling, as a brother and future ruler, that no one would ever look closely enough to catch his darker, and certainly dirtier moments. The worst part of it all was how Jon never anticipated Robb's little tricks, no matter how often he encountered them. His reward for hesitating at the sight of a pink tongue gliding over wet teeth was a painful, and often humiliating blow from a sword. It was blunt, yes, but it was still heavy, and Jon found that the bruises they left on his skin never hurt quite as much as those they made on his pride.

Yet even then, Robb would be perfect, coming to Jon's chambers with little phials from the maester, stripping Jon of his clothes slowly, carefully, before sitting with him on the bed to rub warm oils and ointments into his bruised flesh. And Jon could only sigh from the sensation, faintly melt in gratitude, even as Robb teased him softly about how he was leaving himself so open. So vulnerable. If only Robb knew.

It was on one of those nights when Jon finally thought to complain, muttering through a wounded pout about why they only made love when Robb suggested it, why he wasn't ever allowed to play the first hand. Robb had looked at him thoughtfully then. "Not allowed?" he had said. "No one's stopping you, Jon. Certainly not me. Haven't you considered that?"

Robb had laughed at the look on Jon's face. He'd said that Jon looked like a fire had been lit inside him, as if he'd just remembered that he had a mind of his own. But Robb was right. Jon had never even thought to initiate, to start the game himself. Why hadn't he?

The answer had come easily as he lay in bed that same night, with Robb snoring softly into his shoulder. Jon was afraid to be turned away. The few times in his life he had ever asked for something, the answer had been "no." That he couldn't sit at the high table when trueborn guests were present, that he was not to ask about his mother again. Each small rejection left another cut in his heart, and enough finally left it too scarred. Jon had his fill of hurting, and he never wanted to ask again. 

But now here was Robb, sweet Robb, who always let Jon have his way, who nearly never denied him anything, because it was between the two of them. Them, who shared anything and everything, the two closest boys in Winterfell, Jon thought, hells, perhaps even in all the earth.

And so he lay in wait, because to Jon, taking the first step meant hiding in drifts of snow for an opportunity to attack, to take his prey by surprise while it was vulnerable and weary. At least that's how it might have worked for a hunter, or a wolf. In Winterfell, out here by the armory, it meant shivering in darkness as he waited for his brother. Jon considers himself patient, but this was taking overlong, long enough to remind him that it had been a while since he and Robb had played their games. Jon thinks that the heat that has been rushing through his loins for what feels like hours now is the only real thing keeping him alive. Sod the cold, and sod everything else. Jon only hopes that Robb is prepared to be ravaged.

Jon hears the crunching of boots over fallen snow and he spies a figure with a mop of wild auburn hair stalking slowly to the armory. Jon can tell from the line of Robb's shoulders and the pace of his movement that he is tired indeed, but he has no desire to call off his evening's hunt. He's been made to wait long enough, and besides, if he can have his way tonight, Robb won't even have to work to find his pleasure. Jon waits until he hears the door to the armory shut, and he makes his move.

He reaches the building in a few brisk steps, and glancing about to check that no one is in sight, he tugs on the door and slides in. A single brazier burns in the corner of the room, and Jon sighs from the warmth, his body greeting it like an old friend. In the tomb-like silence of the armory, he watches as the fire reflects off the burnished metal of so many breastplates, glowing hazily from the worn edges of dulled practice swords and battered helms. At the end of the short hall of metal and heat stands his brother, handsome even in exhaustion, his hair aflame in the light of the brazier. 

Robb watches him, eyes half-lidded and weary, mouth twisted in bemusement. His cloak is in a puddle on the floor, his arm over his shoulder, reaching feebly at the straps of his boiled leather armor. His sword and his scabbard, though, are still at his side; still a boy, but Robb thinks himself a man, and he sleeps with his blade safe by his bed. Jon's bootfalls echo about the armory as he clears the floor to his brother. A question begins to form on Robb's lips, but Jon doesn't care to listen, and he muffles his words with a kiss. 

Robb stumbles against a rack of blades so hard that they clatter, and Jon grabs at his hips to steady him. They can't make so much noise, he thinks, even as Robb kisses him back, moaning into his mouth, his body pliant and willing in Jon's hands. Robb breaks the kiss, but Jon fights to join their mouths again, nipping greedily at his brother's lower lip. 

"More," Jon growls, and he's nearly surprised by his own aggression.

"Someone might come in," Robb whispers.

"Everyone's asleep."

"How can you know that? What if nobody looks and they lock us in here?"

Jon bumps his forehead against Robb's, impatient for another taste. "Then we'll stay here." He grinds against Robb's thigh, his cock already hard, and Robb gasps. "I'll keep you warm, if I have to kiss you all night," Jon says. And he can't believe what he's saying, but he doesn't think to stop himself: "If I have to fuck you all night."

Robb's mouth falls open, and his face turns a deep and lovely shade of red. "What – I don't – we don't know how. We can't, Jon."

Jon frowns and he pushes against his brother's leg again, one hand reaching down to rub at the front of Robb's breeches. Robb moans when Jon's fingers finally find his hardness, and his body feels even heavier, looser. He drags his lips along the edge of Robb's jaw. "We'll learn together," Jon whispers, and he isn't even sure that he means it. He doesn't know the first thing about rutting, and Robb doesn't either, he's sure.

"Do you even know where to start?" Robb asks, and the question isn't meant to cut, but Jon feels hurt all the same. He turns Robb roughly around, and despite his brother's protestations, Jon just grabs at his shoulders to keep him still, then grinds his hardness into Robb's bottom. Robb bucks forward, and he moans.

"Is this how it works?" Jon asks mockingly, with more harshness than he intended. He hears Robb whimper as he pushes against him, and if it already feels wonderful like this, fully dressed, Jon wonders how much more glorious this can be when they've shed their clothing. He can scarcely imagine the pleasure of his bare flesh against Robb. _Inside_ Robb.

He inhales deeply, breathes in Robb's body, a heady whirl of sweat and leather. Jon finds it to his liking, a reminder of how Robb was even closer to being a man now, cloaked in the scent of someone who has done a hard day of work. Of lord's work, perhaps, but to Jon it still spoke of honesty and sensibility, qualities that he certainly loved in Robb, though qualities that were of little appeal to him now. He ventures a lick at Robb's neck, and the taste is salty, and strong. He sinks in his teeth, testing the flesh of Robb's throat, and when his brother groans, full and deep, he takes it as approval.

Jon stops in his thrusting, and Robb answers with a pleading whine. "Hush," Jon orders, and his fingers fly to the laces and straps of Robb's armor, working quickly but clumsily at undoing them. He wants to feel his body flush against his brother's back, and it would be too stupid and too risky to be completely naked in the armory, but the stiff leather scratches against Jon's chest and he's certain it does no good for Robb either. The last infernal strap finally comes undone; Jon lets the leather fall forgotten to the floor and returns to the business of undressing just enough of his brother.

And now for the wools. This is easier work at least, and Robb helpfully stretches his arms and shrugs as Jon slips off his coat, leaving just the shirt. Too cold to go any further, so Jon traces deep, hard lines with both his hands, up the sides of Robb's body, stopping to rub in circles at his brother's chest. "Your hands are so cold," Robb groans, even as his nipples harden into nubs. Jon responds by pinching, and he feels himself grow harder when he hears his brother squeal. 

Jon brings one hand slowly down, his thumb snagging meaningfully at the waist of Robb's breeches before he clasps possessively around his hardness. The burbling sound that streams from Robb's mouth is one of surrender, so Jon works Robb's cock with one hand, and teases relentlessly at his nipple with the other. He wonders how Robb has managed to stay standing in spite of all these delightful new sensations. Jon thinks to test Robb's limits, so he thrusts his hips forward and pushes his hardness further into his brother's arse. Robb's legs buckle. He mewls pitifully as Jon grinds against him, and his voice catches in his throat when sharp, wet teeth clamp into his neck once more.

The rutting, or the closest thing to it that Jon knows, continues in earnest, and he hisses when Robb's bottom presses into him insistently. His brother looks so wanton like this, spread out and bent over a barrel, and the way Robb trusts him, the way he gives himself so fully sparks an animal voracity in Jon's loins. Even in his haze, Jon sees how strange this all is: here they are, not quite men, in a cavern groaning with the implements of warriors, busy at a game that was never meant to be played between two boys, or two men, and certainly not two brothers. 

He watches Robb writhe underneath him, how his spine twists with so much want, and he knows that the question of who this game was meant for was only up for the two of them to decide. And the way Robb's bottom pushes so desirously into Jon's cock, the way Jon knows without looking that Robb's face is wrenched, teeth gritting in frustration and need, would be enough to answer. 

Jon weighs the risks of fully undressing in the armory, considering that perhaps everyone truly had retired for the evening after all. The thought of pushing himself against the fleshy seam of Robb's arse – gods, perhaps even beyond it – gives him renewed vigor, and Jon can't help but grunt as he thrusts. Robb only whimpers and pants underneath him, and just as Jon finally decides to free them both from the tyranny of clothing, he hears his brother's breathing come to an abrupt halt. Robb whines softly as his bottom cranes away from Jon's hips, and the ends of his hair dance as he shudders. Had… had Robb finished? 

"Did you – ?"

Robb nods slowly. "Sorry." Through the desperate panting, Jon can tell that he sounds sad, and perhaps a little embarrassed.

Jon hides a kiss in Robb's hair. Something like satisfaction, no, a tingling sense of accomplishment washes over him. "Don't be sorry," Jon whispers, and he tries so very hard not to let his smile be heard. Had he really done this? Had Robb wanted him, enjoyed him so much that he came apart in his breeches? Perhaps, Jon thinks, he really was a man now. Perhaps the time for boyhood had finally passed. He breathes deeply, his chest broadening with pride, and for a moment, Jon feels just a little bit taller.

"I went too fast," Robb mutters. 

Jon presses his lips just under Robb's ear, and that brings a quiet sigh. Jon turns him around slowly, carefully, then studies his face. Robb is still a little flushed, partly from the pleasure, but mainly from the shame of having messed himself. And really, Jon is still furiously hard, but he thinks that his cock can wait. He gives the kindest smile he can muster. "You shouldn't be embarrassed."

Robb reddens a little more, and he snorts. "Who said I was?"

Jon chuckles and gropes Robb's slowly softening cock through his breeches, and Robb whines softly. "Did you really like it that much?" Jon asks. "What I did?"

"So cocky now, Snow?" Robb huffs. "I'll get you back for that. Show you who likes what so much." His hand reaches limply for Jon's waist, but Jon grabs him by the wrist and shakes his head. 

"Later," Jon says, and the glimmer in Robb's eye says that he recognizes the echo. So strange, Jon thinks, that their actions this night should be a reflection of the first time their bodies had joined. His mind traces the steps that followed what had happened on that first evening in his bedchambers. What had Robb said after? 

"Love you," he hears himself whisper, and his hairs stand on end in sheer horror, his very body shocked at the declaration. He trembles, unsure of why he was ever so hesitant to say so to Robb, of all people, Robb who had seen, touched, _tasted_ so much of him. And Jon hadn't at all intended to repeat what Robb had said, but still those words had slipped out so easily, just like that, as if it was always meant to happen, as if he really was his brother's shadow.

As different as they were in appearance and manners, half-blooded or not, they truly were brothers after all, and still so similar in a million tiny ways. And in those little spaces in between, where Jon and Robb stood together on common ground, there was no sense, no importance to whether one was a boy lord and the other a bastard. When it was only the two of them, they were equals, and brothers, and if it truly had to be given a name, lovers. That was all it had to be.

And Robb, sweet Robb, seems to forget his little defeat, and his face breaks into a stupid grin. Jon thinks that the brazier in the armory, no, all the torches in the castle together couldn't glow more brightly than his brother's face.

"I can't believe you said it," Robb says, through a smile so brilliant and proud that Jon very briefly considers punching it in. Instead he stares just past Robb's shoulder, suddenly very interested in the maces propped against the wall, and suddenly feeling his face grow uncomfortably hot. As always, when he exposes too much of himself, Jon retreats, back into his mind and his body, and he responds instead with harshness and a dour expression. 

"We should go," he says. "Now." He hears his voice roughen, but it does nothing to quell Robb's affection, Robb who won't break his gaze and beams at him with gleaming teeth even as he fastens the clasp of his cloak. Jon stalks for the door, his body already hardening in defense, but again Robb is stubborn and persistent, like some sort of smitten pup, and he brushes his fingers against the back of Jon's hand, presses his body closer, and nuzzles against his cheek. Jon softens, just a little. Just enough.

Robb gives him another smile before he steps forward and throws open the armory door. A biting wind rushes in to greet them, and Robb's hair whips about his head, his curls glowing like a scarlet crown in the dim firelight, his cloak billowing like great feathered wings. Stood there by the door, Robb is no mere boy or man, but a lord. A king. 

Jon tries not to gape, unable to grasp how his brother can be so poised and so bloody _handsome_ in spite of what they had just done. He thinks it unfair that Robb should already be so composed, thinks that he should at least have the decency to squirm or hobble as he walks, from the discomfort of his seed-muddled breeches if not from the mind-rending pleasure Jon hopes he gave him. He wonders if he could have done more, and Jon tells himself that he must be even more forthright, even more brutal when ravishing Robb in future.

In this time he also considers that perhaps it matters little whether he would ever have anything of what Robb would one day inherit. Robb would always belong to him in ways that he never could to anyone else, and that was all that counted. Robb was his: his first kiss, his first taste of flesh. To others, Robb would be lord and liege, but to Jon, he was also a brother, and a lover. That was something no one else could ever boast. But Jon's thoughts of propriety, of lords and lovers, they all crumble to nothing when Robb pulls him in for a kiss, gently, but hungrily. 

The feel of Robb's lips sends deep and abiding warmth through Jon's body, a humming in his blood that feels like the sweet lull of wine, and Jon wonders fleetingly if a man can become drunk from too much affection. All at once the bitter cold of the North ceases to exist. Here, clasped in the arms of the most important boy in the world, Jon feels as if he has the very sun in his mouth. Robb pulls away, but his smile is still there: impish, confident, radiant as summer. 

"My chambers," Robb says, and it nearly sounds like the sweetest of commands, but Jon is only too willing to follow. They shut the door behind them and step into the yard, and Jon, he lets his brother lead the way.

Robb's soft laughter and Jon's shushing accompany them on their journey, the music of boyish stupidity and youthful adventure only truly hushed when they stop to whisper secrets and tiny promises into each other's hair, into each other's mouths. They make their way by the light of torches, and Jon wants to dull the thudding of their boots by urging Robb not to run, but his brother doesn't listen. Jon gives in, chases after him in turn, his laughter stuck in his throat. Jon realizes that this, whatever this thing between them is, truly has become a game.

And when one brother catches the other, the reward is a stolen kiss in the darkness of this archway, or another, there, underneath that overhang of stone, any place safe from windows, from watchmen up in the crenellations, from the eyes of Winterfell. Robb can make faces and lick his lips as much as he likes in the light of day. Jon's domain will be the darkness. He will play his hands in the night, where no one can see, or hear, or even care what they do. He will love his brother in shadow.

Jon hurries to keep pace as Robb tugs him up a flight of stairs. Jon laughs, his curls tumbling over his eyes as he runs. He raises his gaze to the moon as they dash past a window. Fighting the great swell of joy that rises in his chest, Jon grins at the moon, and tries his hardest not to howl. Instead he laughs with such fullness that the noise of it bounds up and down the stairs. Robb stops running and brings a finger to his mouth. “Hush,” he hisses, but it's Jon’s turn not to listen, so he pulls his brother away from the window and silences him with his lips.

In the quiet of the stairwell, Jon wonders: what worth is there in worrying about rousing the castle, or in whinging about the future? What merit is there in being so sullen over Robb’s lordship, or Jon's bastardy, the whole sodding lot of problems that rattle in his head like so many unwelcome visitors? Here in the darkness, there are no lords, no kingdoms, no wolves and no dragons. There is only a boy, and the brother he loves.

So much learned in one evening, Jon thinks. When night falls over this frozen place, he knows that he has time at last to show Robb precisely what he deserves, and why, wherever he pleases. But the night does not last forever. He shoves Robb to the wall, pins him in place with his body, and kisses him harder when he complains. Jon drinks his fill of his brother, and he learns that his thirst will never be slaked.


End file.
